Travelers Must Be Content.

The Labor We Delight In Physics [cures] Pain.

The Language I Have Learnt These Forty Years, My Native English, Now I Must Forgo; And Now My Tongue's Use Is To Me No More Than An Unstringed Viol Or A Harp, Or Like A Cunning Instrument Cased Up Or, Being Open, Put Into His Hands That Knows No Touch To Tune The Harmony.

So Many Miseries Have Craz'd My Voice, That My Woe-wearied Tongue Is Still And Mute.

I Cannot Do It Without Comp[u]ters.

O, When She's Angry, She Is Keen And Shrewd! She Was A Vixen When She Went To School; And Though She Be But Little, She Is Fierce.